


The one who was Right all Along

by VillainousVivs



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, POV Alternating, Post-Dream No More Ending (Hollow Knight), Quirrel is alive you'll see him later, ok tbh hornet does most of the work but they all try
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-07 20:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21463741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VillainousVivs/pseuds/VillainousVivs
Summary: Hornet, Ghost, and Hollow try to rebuild Hallownest after the defeat of the Radiance. The revival of a certain fork King complicates the matterThe title of this work is derived from Touch-Tone Telephone by Lemon Demon
Relationships: Hornet & The Knight (Hollow Knight), The Knight & The Pale King (Hollow Knight), The Pale King/White Lady (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 186





	1. Flowers of Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hornet does the delicate flower quest

Hornet arrived at the Distant Village, staggering. Panting. _ Regretting_. She was never doing this again. She hadn’t known what it meant, at first. She hadn’t known what the petals were and how they deteriorate like a broken heart.

When she saw the flower Ghost had been ferrying to Queen’s Garden, she thought, What a beautiful bloom. It was white, almost glowing against her sibling’s void body. It was large, oversized for their stalk, and drooped down whenever Ghost made a leap. It was alabaster, a statement she gave to scarce few things, and it was fragile. It reminded her of something--or someone, she wasn’t sure. But she was enroute to check in with devouts that day, and so she left them, and the flower, alone.

The next day she was back to where she’d spotted Ghost with the flower, and did her best to find out where the vessel was going. It didn’t take very long; eventually she stumbled upon a crevice where infected vines had died and was rotting away and, curious where it led, she went in.

There was a grave, Hornet saw, and the grave was alone. There was a grave, made by mantises, and it was adorned with dozens of the flower she was searching for. There was a grave, and with the light streaming above, she read, “Here lies the traitor’s child.”

Hornet was no stranger to death and the dead. She had witnessed countless, had seen them possessed, had strived to obviate being counted among them. She knew, faintly, what a grave was. It was a place of resting, a place of reprieve, where the body of a loved one laid so those whom they left behind can visit them. It was a place of mourning, and a place of respect. She knew this because she’d heard of graves, and now that she’s seen one, she understood.

Hornet stepped forward and looked at the delicate flowers. Ghost had brought one here, hadn’t they? They planted these flowers, carried them from who-knows-where. Did Ghost know who was buried here? Or did they just do it because it deserved some company? She decided she’ll ask them the next time they meet.

Hesitantly, gently, Hornet took two open buds off their mother stalks. She wasn’t sure if she had the right to, at first. It felt wrong to desecrate such a place. But then, she’s not really desecrating, was she? She just wanted something she could offer to the Shrine, something to the Lady, something she could give. Seeing how little time she had nowadays, she had to settle for something that was not her own. She hoped the traitor’s child wouldn’t mind.

Hornet gave the two flower one last look, then stored them safely in her cloak. She turned around, prepared to speed at once to the cocoon, and stepped on a spike.

_ Ow, _she thought. And then she felt something fall out her pockets, and looked down; the flowers she took were gone, their stalks destroyed and their petals wilted, little spots of grey on the ground. Hornet was dumbfounded. But she was also busy, so she hadn’t thought much of it. Instead she just replaced the two and went on her merry way, to where the green ran wild, to the Lady.

And then, when emerging from the rotting vines, she ran into a mossfly. Again there was feeling of ruined flowers, and that’s when she knew. 

_ I can’t get hurt, _she thought. The flowers were too delicate, fragile to the point of feeling their carrier’s pain. It was meant for places of solace and consolation, and perished elsewhere. Even so, she’s made up her mind. Again she took two buds, and this time, she took care to arrive unscathed.

It always gave Hornet pause to see the corpse outside the Lady’s cocoon. She herself hadn’t known Dryya well, had only seen her sentry or guard one thing to another from ages past. She heard that she was reserved, competitive, and sometimes hard to talk to. That she had little patience, a vile temper, and dangerous when equipped with a nail. That Dryya the Fierce deserved a better end than dying to a bunch of infected traitors. She considered getting a flower for the knight, then decided that she would, at a later date.

The White Lady was sleeping when Hornet entered, and she remained asleep for a few pensive moments as the princess regarded her. When she awoke Hornet was startled to see that her eyes had turned entirely blue. She guessed what it meant.

“Gendered Child! Long has it been since your last visit. I sense that you are well? So alike you are to the Beast, and must now fill that leaden absence of mantle. Bested you were by that wayward vessel, though I guess that you are more glad of its achievements than feelings of spite.” 

Hornet peered at the Lady. It was odd, the way she spoke. It was as if she didn’t expect an answer, didn’t mean for the opposition to reply, didn’t anticipate anything but echoes and silence. She knew it well; it was something she herself was often predisposed to, in her long years of hermitage and duty--loneliness. She couldn’t help but feel a sharp pang of empathy; it was sadder still to consider that the Lady chose the punishment for herself, in mourning and guilt for her rejected spawns. The broken masks of those thousands of vessels who laid at the bottom of the world, white and unglinting...

Hornet shook herself out of the thought. She was here with a gift, and she was bound to give it. “My Lady, a bloom for you.”

The Higher Being paused, stilling herself. And then, without warning, she began shaking (the whole cocoon was shaking, at this point). Hornet realised with surprise--the White Lady was laughing. “Ah, so the flower is intended for me. Is it coincidence that implores you to bring me such a gift?”

“No,” said Hornet, confused. “I saw these beautiful blooms and thought of offering it to those who have aided my upbringing. Why do you laugh?”

“Why, not so long ago the vessel offered the same! I rejected it, of course; it was not grown to be given to the living, but rather as mourning to those who have passed. No, Child. It is a kind gesture that you imply, but I shan’t accept.”

Hornet looked up at the Lady. She decided she wouldn’t ask about the eyes. “Very well; I hope the future finds you well, my Lady. I shall aid in the revival of Hallownest and in doing so, repay the hefty debt I owe.”

The White Lady seemed miffed. “You owe us nothing, Child. Not Hallownest, and certainly not I. Do as you wish.”

With a bow, Hornet turned and prepared to exit the room. “I do not accept the delicate flower. But--if you do wish to grant me a favor, then lay that bloom you kept for me in the remains of the Palace.”

Hornet looked at her, uncertain. “My Lady?”

“Please do so, in my name if not yours. There lays the remanence of my beloved Wyrm, and a sealed dream where we once had shining memories. I would give you a bloom of my own, if I were not so diminished. Lay it there, Child, if you wish to aid me in my grieving.”

Hornet considered her words. “I shall.”

“Thank you.” And she closed her azure eyes, and went quiet.

Hornet left the cocoon feeling heavier than when she entered. She regarded the corpse of the knight again, and whispered a small prayer. Her little pilgrimage was over yet.

To the Beast’s Shrine, then.

* * *

Ghost was angry. Ghost was mad. Ghost was furious. If Ghost could generate any kind of heat, they would be smouldering. Ghost was outraged, and Ghost was Livid. Ghost was trying to stop themselves from slashing at the wall repeatedly while thinking vicious thoughts, and they were failing. 

Ghost was _ pissed._

Because this morning, when they returned to the Grimm Troupe, they had expected to dance. _ Don’t neglect our dance,_ said Grimm, the last time they saw each other. And so Ghost didn’t. They even asked Hornet what a dance was. (She didn’t know what a dance was) Also it was a major hassle to go around and find Grimmkins for the Grimmchild, even if he’s really cute.

For these reasons, Ghost did not expect Grimm to summon fireballs from thin air, and then direct said fireballs at them. For these reasons, Ghost had died. And then came back and proceeded to smack Grimm into oblivion. (they _ thought _ Grimm was smacked into oblivion, until he just poofed back and cheekily ask them to collect even more flames. _ Bastard _)

Ghost was angry, at that point. But they weren’t mad, they weren’t furious. Yet. And then they made the mistake of meeting Divine. 

_ She’s weird, _ Ghost thought when first seeing her; they’d never seen a half-mask before, or such extravagant lashes. Or a woman who smiled so much. Then again, they hadn’t seen a lot of things. 

“Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” she started. “Did you call us? You called us, and we came. We came! You don’t look scared. Why did you call us? Ahhh. It doesn’t matter. Don’t tell me. We came, and I can smell something. Something deep below us. I want it… I want it!”

If Ghost could speak, they would’ve said a lot of things. They could’ve said, “People think you’re scary? But you just look ridiculous.” They could’ve said, “Why are your lashes so long?” They could’ve said, “Where’s Grimm anyways? I want to beat him up again.” They could’ve said, “This is the first time we met, and all you care about is some smell?” They could’ve said, “You’re weird, lady.”

But alas. Ghost was a vessel and vessels had no voice. They settled for glaring at her some more, then turned to leave.

Divine wasn’t finished. “Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh! That charm… beautiful! Most precious thing! Little lovely. Will you let me see it? Have to show it to me!”

Ghost was utterly confused by that statement. Their charms? Beautiful? How did she even know they had charms on? _ She’s one creepy lady, _ they thought. But then, their charms _ were _ beautiful, and it wouldn’t do any harm to let her see, would it? They had accumulated quite a collection by this point, and they were proud of it. Certainly they were entitled to show it off.

So they did. Divine took one look at the charms, then with pinpoint accuracy, swiped fragile strength off and put it into her mouth. Ghost stared. 

And then, quickly and extravagantly, Divine swallowed.

_ What. _

“Beautiful, delicious… Ahhhhhh! You’re good, little lovely. You’re very sweet, to bring me such a gift! The one who made my gift… Aahhh, somewhere below? Yes? Very good gift. Very tasty! Delicious!”

By this point Ghost was contemplating if they could take her. They decided they could; split her open and get fragile strength back. They'll probably have hell to pay after, what with the troupe and all. But for fragile strength? Anything.

“Do you want something, little lovely? You don’t want to take my gift back, do you? Eeuuarrggh! So nasty, so cruel, if that’s true! Once you give something as a gift it’s lost to you forever!”

_ Bullshit, _thought Ghost, who had their nail out and was charging up for a Great Slash. Divine was unfazed; she kept smiling.

“A gift? For you? So greedy! But… I can show you something if you’re nice to me, little lovely. Will you do a nice thing, lovely? Give then to me… your Geo. Give me your Geo and I’ll give you a gift.”

_ Of course, _ they thought. Geo. They had quite an amount, at this point, so it shouldn’t be a problem. They’d rather not kill Divine in front of Grimmchild. Plus they were pretty tired anyways, after that _ dance _ with Grimm. Hornet would approve that they settle this with less bloodshed.

Divine named her price. “Fifteen thousand,” she said.

Now Ghost was mad. If they had a voice, they would’ve said a lot of things. But Ghost didn’t, so they resigned themselves and left. They could visit Lemm. And Millibelle. That should get them a decent start.

And so, with a larger and mewling Grimmchild in tow, Ghost rode the stag furiously to Queen’s Station, and went to the bank.

It was empty. The bank was empty. It was the middle of the day, and Millibelle was not in the bank, which meant that it was empty. The bank, full of their geo, was empty.

In a fit of anger, Ghost pierced the side of the bank with their nail. It fell like a sheet of cardboard. Silently, Ghost screamed.

And that’s where they’d been, for almost ten minutes now, slashing at the carboard wall of the fake bank, thinking dark thoughts. Ghost had spent their Soul dry on Abyss Shrieks. The Grimmchild had dozed off. Eventually, Ghost collected themselves and went back to the stag, and signalled for the City of Tears.

* * *

Now that Hornet had arrived in Distant Village, she could see how pompous she was, thinking she could arrive unscathed. She supposed she always thought of this as her home, and thought that after unnamed years the dark tunnels would still feel the same. She was, of course, wrong. She did manage with the flower, but just barely. And the tunnels felt like different things entirely. They were strange and new and alien, no longer familiar and secure; instead of the scent of cold and dust, there was the sickening sweet stench of the Infection, still not quite rotten. The walls and homes of deephunters were laid bare, and the ground nearby were littered with bodies. No longer was there the usual skittering of little weavers, or the rhythmic stomps of devouts. It was, she supposed, one more thing she had to lose.

Hornet shook herself out of the depressing train of thought and shot herself up the village, greeting devouts and weaverlings all the while. They looked hungry and tired and dirty, they looked sick and hurt and expectant. They looked _ alive__,_ and there was nothing else Hornet could ask them to do except wait. She was almost done finding shelter for the survivors elsewhere, almost done rescuing them from wild beasts and stranding cliff sides. She was almost done, and when she was, she’d feed and protect them, as per her birthright. 

For now they looked at her and bowed, and Hornet couldn’t help but feel they were owed something in return. Their respect, their devotion, their trust--those qualities were earned, not gifted, and only shown to the leader of one’s clan. They were given to those who stand where others trembled, to those who would protect and aid them, who would give their life for their safety and survival. That was the Beast’s duty, and they were giving this respect to her because she will do the same. _ A leaden absence of mantle, indeed. _ She nodded to them in return, then sped away to the Shrine.

It was quiet inside. No longer did the devouts and deephunters guard the narrow halls, or trick unwary travellers onto the webbed bench. Instead there were candles, brought out from storage by mourning devouts, and with it a dense air of rumination. Hornet found a small vase from the offerings, laid one of the delicate blooms inside, and went up.

Walking up to the stone plinth was painful. Walking up to it was _ nostalgic, _was full memories that hurt. After the fall of Hallownest, Hornet took it upon her juvenile self to impose as protector and sentinel over its massive corpse, and had done so by endlessly wandering from one place to the next. Looking back, she supposed she thought of it as running away; Deepnest had, by that point, declined so much so that the Weavers, faithful as they were, considered returning to the distant lands where they came from. Vespa had been suffering from hazy dreams, so honey was in deficit, and the bees were anxious to a fault. And the White Palace… well. No one knew what happened to it, retainers included. There was panic, and then a march, and then there was nothing but dreams and possessed corpses.

In the years that followed, Hornet wandered. She drifted and maimed and slept sometimes. She looked on as clean-shaven roads were overtaken by mosscreeps, as elevators crashed and walls broke. She did her best to do what she took as duty, and she was tired. But mostly she wandered, and tried not to get killed. 

Sometime during her stay in Queen’s Gardens, she found a way to fall into Deepnest. It was then that a little weaver came out of nowhere and assaulted her--their eyes were glowing orange, their fangs were venomous, they looked like they were starved, and they were growling, growling, growling--and Hornet, by instinct, cut the infected weaver in half.

She didn’t remember what came after. She only knew that she ran. She ran down into the mushroom-lit tunnels, to the webbed walls and maze-like rooms, and she had somehow arrived in Beast’s Den. Eventually, she found herself curled by Herrah’s side, weeping. She found herself rung out, and dry, and unwilling to move. She fell asleep. And when she woke up, she felt lighter.

She always came to her mother for solace, after that. It helped.

Hornet walked up to the stone plinth and laid down the delicate flower. She wanted to say something, but had nothing she wanted to say. She looked at the empty spot with Herrah’s body imprinted on it, and choked back a sob.

Hornet wanted to cry. Hornet did not let herself cry. Hornet knew that if she were to cry, she wouldn’t stop until there were no tears left, and she had a lot of tears and little time. _ Hornet would _ ** _not_ ** _ cry. _

She would make a promise, instead. “Mother. Beast. The Infection is finally gone. I don’t know what exactly happened--but that vessel, the little Ghost, had slain the power at its source. Hallownest is reviving, and Deepnest with it. I’m doing my best, for now. I’m saving bugs, and feeding them when I can.”

With that, Hornet turned and was about to leave. Then she said: “I’ll repay you. For everything.” _ I’ll make you proud. _

And she was off. To the White Palace, then--or what remained of it.

On her way to traverse the caverns of Hallownest, Hornet was again lost in thought. Most survivors had been rescued and provided for as well as they could be, given the circumstances. They had so far taken up refuge in the City, eating away at the honey from the City storerooms. It wouldn’t last forever. And with the Hive disoriented and Queenless, it wasn’t likely that they’d get any more soon. Hunting could provide for the small population for a short period of time, but she knew from personal experience that it couldn’t last. No, her first priority--after finding shelter and medicine--was to resume agriculture in Greenpath and Queen’s Gardens. She had tablets to work with, if not able-bodied bugs, and she could probably figure it out after scouring the contents of that stockroom in Greenpath. She hoped that with Ghost’s help, it’d be enough.

As she stabbed her needle into the now-open gates of the City, her thoughts switched to a newer, more complicated matter: her siblings, the two surviving vessels. One who was chained up for countless years in complete darkness and isolation, one combined of two voids and banisher of the light of the Infection. One who knew how to sign, but lacked an arm, and the other who believed swinging their nail to be the apex of self expression. For Hollow Knight--or Hollow, as she said for short--progress was a treacherous path of recovery and adaptation. For Ghost it was stopping to listen once in a while, and maybe not stabbing everything they saw. She knew that Hollow resided in the City of Tears and was helping the survivors alongside Ogrim. (she was particularly peeved that the common bugs seem frightened of them, though that could only helped by time) Ghost, on the other hand, was off somewhere, doing something. Sometimes she knew about it, mostly she didn’t. She hoped she could meet with them sometime soon to reconvene, and start efforts on agriculture and plantwork. 

For now she carefully kept from the area where the survivors clustered and avoided contact. She approached the former elevator shaft, its metal chains corroded over time and overuse, and cautiously descended.

It was strange to see the great bridge leading to the Palace so broken; in its glory days the bridge itself would be brimming with light reflected from the large lamp posts, and with bugs here for business or pilgrimage. Now it was just rubble with stingworms beneath it, and a few infected bodies besides. She shoved them over the edge. 

It was strange to hear the once-bustling tram station echo her steps. This particular station was the largest one, connecting from Deepnest to the Basin to the outskirts of the kingdom. She could still hear the graceful sliding of the trams, the opening of the tramgates… she wondered if it still worked.

It was stranger still to find no servants, no retainers, no pilgrims who’s come to pray in awe of the splendor of the Palace, except for mournful corpses at the foot of a fountain that had stilled. It was made in the image of the Pale King, though resembled him sparsely in reality; he was nowhere as large as depicted. She wondered whether he commissioned it intentionally, or the architect chose to make that particular decision by themselves. Either way it was a mournful sight, all these bugs here praying for someone who never came back. 

The remains of the Palace made her skin crawl. She didn’t know what happened to it--according to witnesses it had just erupted in a burst of light, and disappeared. The same eruption had broken the bridge above it; no one knew the cause.

In its previously alabaster walls, in its shining corridors, she held her more precious memories, back when she was called the Gendered Child. Here was where she learned how to fabricate silken Soul, where she received her first training nail, despite protests from Vespa. It was home, and it was gone. Now there’s nothing but nothing in its place, a cavern so large she quivered at her sizeable insignificance. The disappearance of her father had been the final nail in the fall of Hallownest. Before, bugs still had hope; and why wouldn’t they? Their beloved King had solved every problem, absolved every mystery. But afterwards there was panic. And then there was nothing.

Remembering herself, she walked down the stainless rails and stopped where the rubble laid.

Looking around, Hornet found that she couldn’t find any resemblance of her childhood here. Nothing in these grey pieces of dust belonged to her. One more thing she had to mourn. She did find a broken kingsmould amidst the ruins and decided to set the flower there. It was apt, she decided, to lay it on something the Pale King had personally crafted and left behind.

There she gave a few moments of reprieve as respect. Then she rushed off to the City above; there was much work to do.

* * *

For a while, the stillness of the Basin remained just that--windless and voiceless, and perhaps, timeless. The delicate flower at the split body of the kingsmould was no different. At times it would seem to catch an invisible breeze, its petal quivering just a bit. Mostly it stayed still. At least, until didn’t.

Some time on the second day of the flower’s arrival, the wind picked up. This time, though, it wasn’t the wings of the monarchflies causing the currents. It was something alike, something pale. Something that had laid adrift and broken, holding onto to its anchor by a shred of hope and a cruel desperation. Whatever it was, it recognized the power within the flower, within its fragile and foreign bloom. Whatever it was had taken that power, shaping it, dreaming it. Whatever it was made a shining light at the heart of the beating currents, before opening his eyes upon the world once more. 

For the second time in his very long life, the Pale King was reborn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fork lives yet again
> 
> Divine's lines are quoted from Hollow Knight.


	2. Kingsoul, Voidheart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whats that pokemon??
> 
> iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiits... hollow knight!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i put hk as a tag without them being in the first chapter i hope this makes up for it

**A few months ago**

When the Seer asked them to collect for her 1800 essence, they thought she was going to give them something awesome. Like the Dreamgate, or the Arcane Egg, or that mask shard that gave them some extra protection, or that charm that looked cool. They didn’t know what to expect, exactly, but they did have high expectations. The Awoken Dreamnail completely disappointed them. At first, they thought mayhaps it would reveal deeper thought within the enemy, or weaken them, or something. It didn’t. In fact, there was literally no improvement. It was just shinier and prettier than the last one, and not by a lot. (they fought Gorb for this. _ Gorb._)

Until they stumbled upon the broken corpse of that kingsmould again, and out of boredom, slashed it with their dreamnail.

Instead of the barrier they were expecting, Ghost was transported to dream--a massive, magnificent, powerful dream. It was unlike the esoteric in-between of the forgotten dream, or the many palettes of various defeated foes, or even that shrine of believers, tucked away in the corner of a statue--this dream was bright, and it was blinding. It’s dream particles were completely white, which matched that alabaster building in the distance, the one Ghost now realised must be the White Palace, or a memory of it. Its entrance was in the shape of a Hallownest Seal, its body a giant dome surrounded by white clouds and an enormous replica of the King’s thorn-crown. The curved boulders reminded them of its counterpart in the material world, which they thought to an unfortunate product of the Palace’s destruction. It looked almost like a Wyrm’s proper body, the mouth opening upwar-

Ghost was smacked in the face. Hard. By a strange weapon that quickly returned to its wielder, that same strange construct--the kingsmould--that Ghost used to traverse to this dream. If they squinted hard, they could see that beneath the armor, it was just a small bug who looked inky black. Ghost obliterated it with spells and went inside.

It was beautiful. An eerie, overly pristine sort of beauty, but that didn’t undermine it one bit. It was so bright that Ghost couldn’t imagine the amount of Soul this place must have contained, if it wasn’t a dream. Soul Master had a massacre littered around the sanctum, and even its glow cannot compare to this. Even if the place felt trippy--all the furniture being covered up, all the hallways leading to cliffs or detached from one another. Random kingsmoulds in corridors, as if they were making it difficult on purpose, that this dream had something to hide, or protect. Well, whatever it was, Ghost was going to take it. It was what Ghost did best--robbing, stealing, and killing. Oh, and beating people up. And destroying their dreams.

It wasn’t until halfway into the parkour that Ghost saw the first retainer. Granted, their first instinct was to kill them, which meant that it was a surprise when they put up no fight, and when hit, melted back into shapeless essence, and faded away. Ghost was dumbfounded. What kind of bug didn’t react to bodily harm? Then again, it was a dream, and whose ever dream it was didn’t seem to believe the retainers could protect themselves.

The next time Ghost came across one, they left him alone--then jumped when he suddenly bowed as they walked past, making a reverent sound meanwhile.

_ What the fuck, _thought Ghost, who immediately dreamnailed the crazy bug. The thoughts were even more troubling.

_ ...King… Your troubles… Let us… _

Ghost wasn’t sure of a lot of things, but they were fairly certain they weren’t a King. Maybe, they thought, it’s the King’s Brand the retainers were reacting to. Or, they mistook them for someone else. It was a dream, after all, and dreams are often hazy, less coherent and more memories and desires.

Someone else…

Realising exactly who it was--the maker of this dream, the inventor of kingsmoulds, the monarch of Hallownest, the father who committed filicide--Ghost charged ahead. Wherever that Wyrm was, they were getting there, and they were going to make him pay. It didn’t matter how many times they would die. Hollow had suffered an eternity. Hornet had suffered an eternity. All their siblings, just shades now, their masks broken and voices gone, had suffered an eternity. And it was all because of _ him. _

Ghost didn’t remember much, after that. They rampaged through the rest of the Palace by force of will alone. Then they reached the throne room.

And there he was.

At first, Ghost was a little anxious--Pale King wasn’t going to be a walk in the City; this dream had been the largest and most magnificent they’d ever seen, and they didn’t want to think about how powerful the Wyrm would be in a fight. They were going to be fine. They’d done this before. They’ve killed countless gods, from the massive moss charger to the small fly sly. They’ve got this.

Eventually, Ghost happened upon another kingsmould, broken and leaked. They stared; it was void. Of course. That Wyrm had experiments before the vessels, if simplerand broken ones. Ghost walked past the various corpses of kingsmoulds and into the surprisingly dim throne room. And there he was. Still and quiet on his throne, not giving a fuck about the mess he’s made. Ghost charged up to him, determined to make the first strike, as many as they could before the Pale King could…

...tumble down to the ground…?

Ghost stared at his sire, confused. They leaned closer and saw that it was not the Pale king who laid on the floor, but his corpse. The Wyrm was very definitely dead.

Ghost wasn’t sure how to feel about this. For one, they had wanted to meet their father. They wanted to look him in the eye. They wanted to hear what he’d say, whether he’d defend his actions or admit them. Whether he was sorry.

(Whether he cared, about them, or Hornet, or anything at all. Was it all for himself? What about the White Lady? She seemed taken by him enough. But then, she wasn’t exactly a good mother, either, was she? Ghost somewhat dreaded the idea of meeting the Pale King. They knew that if it ever happened, one of them would die. Except one of them is out for blood and immune to dying, and the other was already dead. They supposed it didn’t matter, in the end)

In a fit of confusion, Ghost decided to catch a break. They were pretty banged up after that tour of the Palace, and they could use a quick rest on the throne of Hallownest.

Except they couldn’t. In fact, the throne was the most uncomfortable thing they’ve ever sat on, topping even that corpse by Leg Eater. They couldn’t recover any masks. Not only that, they couldn’t even rearrange their charms, or nod off. It was, all in all, a horrible seat.

Ghost grew bored of it, eventually, after the novelty of sitting on a throne wore off. Instead they took notice of something shiny that had fallen out of the Pale King’s body, and was whisked away.

* * *

For the first few days, things were blurry--they recalled a sibling, one with a likely mask and a gleaming nail, then another in crimson dress. They recalled pain, though that wasn’t unusual, except this time it was more pronounced, more concentrated, more intent with her rage. They were faintly aware of the empty presence of the Dreamers, and hearing the gate fall open. They recalled something sharp jabbing into their broken mask, threatening to tear them apart, and threads that followed. And then for a while there was nothing.

They recalled collapsing. They recalled shouting in the distance, then silence. And then later, the rumble of a cartwheel beneath them. They smelled rain, and metal, and maybe heard the sliding of an elevator chain. They felt their body sink into something soft, and they fell asleep.

According to Hornet, Hollow slept for an entire week. They didn’t believe her at first; the Hollow Knight didn’t need sleep. None of the vessels did, at least as far as they understood. (not that they had anyone else except themselves for reference) She didn’t argue, just brought them more blankets and told them to rest. They did.

For those first few days, the Hollow Knight did nothing but remain unconscious for as long as they could. Nothing hurt. And at the same time, everything hurt. No longer was there a blinding light imprisoned at the very heart of their mind, screaming to be free, and no longer were there chains crushing in, or broken armor plates that dug painfully into their void flesh. But. Well. They lost an arm, hadn’t they? 

It meant that all this wasn’t real--another one of the Radiance’s alluring dreams and illusions. Another fevered fantasy they had to bury. That’s fine. They’ve done it before, they can do it again, and they’ll do it for the rest of eternity.

(Why was the Gendered Child called Hornet? And why was she so tall? Or rather, shouldn’t she be taller, like the Beast?)

Hornet kept coming back, and insisting to feed them (they tried to tell her they couldn’t eat, but it was hard with just one arm and a broken mask for a face). She kept coming back with hurt bugs who were frightened of them, who still had traces of orange leaking out their eyes, who were shivering hours on end. She kept coming, and she looked tired, and maybe a little sad. The bugs she brought back were… pieces, and not always together. Their first casualty was eight days after Hollow woke up, and since then there had been five, so far. They still steered clear of Hollow; out of fear or caution, they weren’t sure, though they suppose it didn’t matter. It was altogether a very unpleasant dream.

(_Dreams are tailored to one’s desires and experiences, and dreams were a reflection of one’s state of mind. Dreams were death traps with sweet lures of hope and light, and dreams were bright and luminous. _)

This was not a dream.

This was not a dream.

_ This was not a dream. _

They were awake. They were out of the Temple. They were in the City, and Hornet, their grown half-spider sister, was bringing survivors back to this… cushiony place and making attempts to keep them fed. They had slept for a week, and they had lost an arm, and they had a gaping hole in their chest.

The Hollow Knight had revoked their eternal sacrifice. They had escaped from the fate that had been theirs, and now they were somewhere else. They were… free? But they were also hurt, and missing their nail. And they wanted to sleep.

So they did. After a while Hornet told them not to worry, and brought them a pen and some paper, then waited very patiently for them to write something. They didn’t. They didn’t know what to write. Their hand shook, and the ink was half-solid, and the papers were damp and torn. Eventually Hornet had to leave, and so they left the writing utensils where it was.

For quite some time thereafter, The Hollow Knight did not move. They did their best to not think. About anything, at all. (Like they’re meant to. Like how they’re supposed to be. If only they were empty. If only they were pure…) They had little will for anything except sleep, and sleep induced nothing but scorching nightmares. 

They were back in the Abyss, the bodies still raining down. They watched as cloak after cloak fell and splintered on the corpses below. They hadn’t realised what they were at first; and then they dared to look below them, and saw empty eye holes staring back, (Pleading, screaming. They were calling their name. The sea was made of their tears and their flesh, and their bodies were the shore. If Hollow went to far out they knew they’d drown) In a fit of panic, Hollow leapt up towards the platforms to take shelter, only to get knocked down by another discarded body. They knocked it aside and focused on not getting crushed themselves. They avoided looking down as they slowly ascended the broken steps, up towards that platform of shining light, where the whispering was coming from. Father. They knew, instinctively, that that was their father. And they knew, intuitively, that he was waiting for them. With feelings of relief and odd familiarity, Hollow grabbed onto the metal platform, expecting the harsh gaze of the Pale King waiting for them to get up.

But he was not. Instead, he was looking at another vessel, whose mask mirrored theirs, was identical to theirs, if only a little thinner. Satisfied, the Wyrm turned and walked back toward Ancient Basin, not waiting for either vessel to catch up. The thin-horned vessel followed, then paused and turned to look at them, expressionless. 

For a brief moment, the two alike vessel looked at each other. And then the thin-horned one walked away.

_ No, wait! I’m here! I’m righ- _

All of a sudden the world shook, and Hollow at once knew what it was: the Pale King was sealing the Abyss. They tried to hang on, but the ledge, it was too small and the tremor made their void hands slippery and they fel-

Hollow woke up heaving. (Breathing audibly.) Shaking. After that they made an effort to resist sleep. They succeeded until Hornet came back and berated them rigorously for ‘not resting’ and proceeded to stare at them until they pretended to fall unconscious. Eventually they gave up and just settled back where they were. 

(It didn’t matter what they did now, did it? The Gendered Child--Hornet--was doing just fine, saving Hallownest. What’s left of it. It’d be better to be in the Temple, where they didn’t have to face the ruination of their failure. They wanted to sleep without nightmares. They wanted to _ sleep, _preferably forever.)

They might’ve followed through with that, if it weren’t for their willful mind. They might have done it if they hadn’t thought of Hornet, and how tired she looked, how hungry she seemed. They might’ve succeeded if they knew what was good for themselves. But alas. They were not the Pure Vessel that the bugs had deserved. They had a will of their own, and it told them to survive. Shamefully and altogether unpleasant, but they would survive.

Some days after their nightmare to the Abyss and internal moping, Hollow found the courage to step out of bed. Well. Stepped out of the giant pile of cushions, more like. And they fell.

They tried again. And fell, again. This proceeded for most of the afternoon. Hollow put one foot after the other--shakily, yes. Wobbly, unstable, prone to any sort of interference--but they were doing it. They were walking, or what resembled it, and they were getting somewhere.

Unwittingly, Hollow tumbled onto the hard floor past the cushions with a loud _ thud _. A moment later the Gendered Child came into the room and shoved them back to their bed.

“I told you to rest,” she said, displeased. She was soaking wet and hunched over, having just returned from the City beyond, and Hollow couldn’t help but wonder what she’s been doing to keep those wayward bugs alive.

At first, Hollow tensed--they had defied a direct order. Not the King’s order, but his daughter’s, so it was pretty much the same thing. Also she looked angry. Cranky, more like, from lack of sleep and feeding. And, what’s the word… stress? Her needle looked sharp, and she carried it in her hand always from a lack of a sheath, and it was stained with dark colors. Did she run into trouble out there? She looked ragged, though that could just be fatigue. Hmm…

“Hollow, you’re not allowed to leave until you eat something,” she said, pulling them from their thoughts, shoving a plate full of… something in their face.

Hollow might’ve concurred, if they were a perfectly empty vessel. But Hollow was not, so they pulled themselves upright and signed an exaggerated **No**.

“I don’t know how to sign,” Hornet said defeatedly.

Hollow picked up the pen and wrote--shakily and not very well, but with more intent that anything they’d ever written before-- **I can’t eat.**

Hornet stared at the paper. “Oh,” she said. “Alright, then.” She proceeded to devour the food within a span of a minute. “You’re still not allowed to leave the room until I come and help you.”

And then she left. The next day Hollow managed to make it out of the room and turn a corner, where they found a window by a large desk. They sat down. They remember patrolling the City, long ago. They often accompanied one of the Great Knights on their rounds; it was training, father said, so they’d become accustomed to the presence of normal bugs, as well as the rain. The rain…

They loved the rain. They couldn’t make sense of why, or how. But the moment they stepped out from under the ledge of the palace elevator, Hollow knew that they loved the City of Tears. Its spires, its well-paved roads, its enormous cave walls and squircular windows. The tapestry and the lanterns that hung on strings, the scaffolding that unravelled new wonders of engineering and architecture. The occasional passerby was Hollow’s favorite. They’d only seen retainers, before, the stiff, uniformed bugs that behaved almost machine-like, obeying their parents’ (mostly the Pale King’s) every whim. Here bugs had their own business to tend to, and they came in all sorts of colors, shapes and sizes. In the White Palace everything was shiny or iridescent or otherwise glowing, and then there was this--a blanket of rain upon argentiferous buildings, the rhythmic marchings of sentries. The occasional conversation they’d managed to overhear, about lovers or professions or anything else. It was ecstatic. 

After that first excursion in the City, Hollow understood why the Pale King wanted to protect it--it was beautiful. It was the home to hundreds of thousands of bugs, and it was dying. It made them harden their resolve, made them even more determined to be the vessel they were pronounced to be.

Well. Not that that had any use.

The rain, though. The rain was beautiful enough. For now they’ll just sit and listen to the rain for a little longer...

* * *

**Present day**

Ghost felt _ awful. _

Right in the middle of bartering with Lemm, their charms--the one charm, the Voidheart--started beating. _ Okay, _they thought. _Why not._ As if they hadn’t been through enough horseshit for one day. Not that they understood very well the power of the charm, anyways. The White Lady, that tree mom inside the cocoon, just handed them a white fragment without much explanation, and proceeded to tell them to kill their sibling. (she also insulted the Grimmchild, but whatever) They contemplated that fragment for a long time, considered if they should throw it away, since it was apparently useless. That is, until they found the other half.

The Kingsoul, a holy charm that signified the union of two Higher Beings, provided the bearer infinite Soul. The most costly charm Ghost had ever beholden, and the one they felt most conflicted of. It was useless as a charm, purely because of its too-high costs and slow effects. But it was undoubtedly the charm that was used as focus to birth them and all the other vessels. They could feel it, and could see it too; the vessels were all made in its image. 

Ghost kept the charm, of course. But they never used it. They didn’t expect to, ever really, and they didn’t want to.

Until they discovered the Birthplace.

Rediscovered it, more like. It looked nothing like this last time Ghost was here, though; the last time Ghost had been there, they were recently born and already climbing out of a heap of corpses. Siblings. They didn’t realise then, but they did now. Back then it was just a hurdle between them and survive, a mountain of broken masks and bodies, though they supposed in time some parts caved in to make a path.

And then: the egg which they were born out of. And a reflection in the glossy, inky void shells, looking back at them.

A memory that was lost to the wilderness beyond, now recovered. A memory they weren’t sure how to describe, how to feel about.

When they woke up the Kingsoul was gone; instead there was the Voidheart, attached secure on their chest, quiet and still. 

It wasn’t still now. It was beating, faster and faster, each pulse stronger and more defiant. It was Soul, and it was leaking out, it was acting against their will--as if it belonged to someone else. There was a light that shone through the outer black layer of void atop the charm, and then, with an explosion that shook Lemm’s various shelves, the Kingsoul brandished itself on the ground, a large portion of Ghost’s torso with it.

_ Ow, _they thought, before passing out.

* * *

The ground hit hard.

The Pale King--glorious, luminous Higher Being of the greater mind and granter of sentience, collapsed. Flopped, more like, as if he was a discarded towel of some sort. (which wasn’t entirely inaccurate) There on the ground he laid for several arduous minutes, doing nothing but breathe. Everything hurt.

_ Well, _ he thought. Not hurt; more drained, forgotten and isolated. Powerless to an extent. The years he spent in that drifting dream had harmed him much, his retainers and citizens all succumbing to that hideous plague. He could hear no more prayer or praise made to his name--or to any other name, which in part frightened him. The only place he’d heard such sullen silence was the Abyss. It took nearly all he had left to pull himself back, even with that strange and powerful flower as focus. 

Eventually, the Wyrm managed to drag his miserable body somewhat upright, onto his many hind limbs. He looked around. The Palace was expectedly destroyed. The kingsmould that served as anchor was gone now, obliterated to pieces by his recent rebirth, and not much else survived--a dead body here, a broken pillar there. The gateway survived, slanted and mostly unrecognizable, but still standing. A few disoriented bodies of retainers further away. He supposed it was the best he could’ve hoped for. He wouldn’t be staying, anyways; he needed food, water, and a safe enough shelter to sleep and recover.

The Pale King then approached the flower. The Delicate Flower, or so it seems; fragile or not, it was powerful, and not at first glance; if he hadn’t been waiting for something like this, the flower would’ve eluded him completely. With what mind he has left, he focused on the flower, hoping to decipher its powers and origins. From what he gleaned, a hidden force of solace hides within, and it resisted his influence, its alabaster petals indifferent towards his mental prying. After a while it became too draining, and he gave up, pocketing it instead for later.

Taking a deep breath in, the Pale King thought about his next course of action. His options were few and unpleasant; stay and perish, or move onto this desolate field which the Radiance destroyed, and try to survive. He could take the stagways, though there would certainly be no stag left to ferry him anywhere, and he’d have to brave the dim, crude tunnels until he found his way out. He could take the tram--no, he couldn’t. The tram in Ancient Basin led to only two places: Kingdom’s Edge, and Deepnest. He was particularly terrified of the latter, and neither was a viable option for a temporary den. 

The obvious best choice is to go up, to the City, where he could scour the Storerooms for something to eat, and sleep untroubled.

(He didn’t want to see the City. Last time he was there the corpses piled so high bugs were crushed if one was toppled. It reeked in a way not even the eternal rain could cover, and citizens were instead confined indoors or tried to fled. They didn’t get far; the gates were sealed tight enough that none could enter, or leave, without his personal decree. When he stood upon the podium for the announcement of the Hollow Knight, those bugs, those desperate, black eyes--they looked like starving children, waiting. For a solution or for admission of defeat, he didn’t know) 

Finally, deciding that it’s best to get it over with, the Pale King focused. He allowed his remaining consciousness to float, to become weightless, unbinded. To assume the true form of his mind--the gargantuan Wyrm, encompassing what portion of Hallownest it could. From it he gleaned the general state of things:

That orange haze that had wiped the majority of Hallownest succeeded in its intention; he couldn’t sense a lick of mind or instinct in the City’s now-empty halls, save for maybe a stray tiktik who somehow fell from the Crossroads. Bodies of loyal sentries laid around on highstreets, while the less fortunate ones were drowned with the greater half of the City, entombed under that peaceful mirage. The Fungal Wastes intrude ever rudely into the eastern side, their spores unbarred by the still-sealed gates and unchecked by mainteners. Inside what used to be a laboratory for soul-study were countless cocoons, crudely made for empty corpses; the whole building was overflowing with soul, with sounds of tinkered machinery, and he could only assume the worst. Next to it stood the Spire, tall in its mysterious majesty, and he was loathed--_loathed_\--to find that Lurien was missing on his plinth.

The hopeful part of him thought the Watcher might be alive, broken free from the bind of the Sealing, and gone off somewhere else better. Perhaps he’d paint to make a living, now, with that butler of his in tow. 

(Probably not. But there’s hoping)

At the edge of his mind, he felt a cluster of muffled consciousness, gathered at the edge of the City in a desperate huddle. It wasn’t cold, at least not where they were at, camping in that promiscuous tower of cushions. But it was wet, a given with a drowning City, it was hungry, and it was dirty to a fault. The bugs inside were resting uneasily, tossing and turning from an unnatural lack of dreams. Whatever fortunes allowed them to survive the Infection, they’re going to need more of it.

Next was the Fungal Wastes. Not much he could say, except that the mantises seemed healthy and perfectly combative. Some things never change, he supposed. If anything, the fungals were thriving; the west was beginning to devour the Queen’s Station, and the north protruded nearly to the Bustling Crossroads. That'll need pruning, once things start up again.

Greenpath was a stretch for what little Soul he had left, but he made it. He was happy to find that Unn’s dormant and familiar form still laid at the bottom of the acid lake, her might slowly rescinding from that world as it was before. From there he could glean that all previous fields had been overgrown, paths again feral to the mosses and squits. Some parts were even withering, though that might just be the Infection. Either way it was a disheartening sight.

If he really tried, he suspected he could get into Queen’s Gardens. He didn’t try.

(He also wanted to check the Temple of the Black Egg, if his head wasn’t already pounding. He’d have to get up there himself. _ Physically. _The idea of such a journey appalled him)

With his mental excursion concluded, the Pale King found himself making two very surprising conclusions: That the Radiance was gone, and somehow, he wasn’t.

He was alive. He was in pain, and lightheaded, and starving and confused and tired, but he was alive. He decided to feel glad about it.

With a heavy heart, the Pale King began his slow ascent to the City of Tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha im so tired
> 
> The dreamnaild dialogue for the royal retainer is quoted from Hollow Knight.


End file.
